


The bravest

by jeza_red



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Community: hobbit_kink, Gen, Genderswap, Prompt Fill, don't get in the way of an angry momma bear, she!Beorn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:58:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeza_red/pseuds/jeza_red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dwarves were prideful and stubborn, but they were broken in some fundamental way that Beorn could relate to. Forever travellers, always on a journey, without a home waiting for them on the other end – while she had nothing else, but a home that was empty of joy, that she was nevertheless afraid of leaving.</p><p>Until the Wizard came to her and brought with him a Company of thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The bravest

**Author's Note:**

> Link to the prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5821.html?thread=12564925#t12564925

Beorn has lived a long life.

And she could barely remember times when she wasn’t alone. Not in the sense of overall loneliness, for she always had her animal friends around. Her faithful dogs and her gentle sheep and snarky goats to keep her company; her bees that brought her sweetest honey and newest information from the land between the mountains and the forest.  There were even a  couple of cats living in the rafters of her Hall, sneaky and prideful, but gracious enough to come when she called them and sit by her side when the weather was bad and her body was aching after many battles she fought with the Orc-scum.

She has surrounded herself with friends and duties that rarely ever left her any time to think of that other kind of loneliness that plagued her. The one brought on by the knowledge of being the last of the once strong and great family.

Of being the last of the great guardians of the East.

Sometimes these thoughts sneaked on her unawares when she was patrolling borders of her land, or washing clothes in the pond, or smoking pipe on the porch of her home. They jumped and tackled her to the ground and she couldn’t stay in place, she had to run, change her skin and run away from the Hall, form her friends, from her home with a wild roar in her throat and wildness in her eyes that predicted many deaths amongst Goblins and Wargs that were bold enough to stand in her way. It crushed her heart, that solemn knowledge, until nothing was left but despair at this wretched existence she was straddled with.

She didn’t take well to strangers in her land, never has. She didn’t like to venture outside of the grassy plain. Wherever she went, she’s made sure to keep her home in sights or the smell of it fresh in her nose. It was the only thing that was hers, still, and she would have really nothing left if it was overtaken by the enemy.  

The Elves didn’t bother her overmuch, but they never trusted her either. She returned the sentiment wholeheartedly. Wiry creatures were pretty to look at, but too wilful for her tastes, too self-important by part. They often forgot that she was almost as old as some of them have been, that her family ruled these lands before their forest was but a field-full of samplings. That the skin-changers of her line have been protecting the East from the darkness when the Elves were busy hiding between their trees.

No, she didn’t really like Elves.

She felt no more for the Dwarrows, for that matter. Beorn pitied them, though. She was aware of the Dragon’s coming and seen with her own eyes what despair the lizard wrought on that once proud and strong race. She’s seen refugees escaping to the West when some of them wanted to pass through her land. She allowed them, for the heart was still beating in her chest, for there were children within the caravan and wounded that she has fed herbs and honey and warm milk before sending them on their way.

The Dwarves were prideful and stubborn, but they were broken in some fundamental way that she could relate to. Forever travellers, always on a journey, without a home waiting for them on the other end – while she had nothing else, but a home that was empty of joy, that she was nevertheless afraid of leaving.

She tried hard not to think about that.

Beorn lived with her animal friends and her sworn duty, and that seemed to be enough.

Until the Wizard came to her and brought with him a Company of thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit.

 

*

 

Wizard’s plan is crafty; she has to admit, to bring them in twos, to tell her stories. To try not to overwhelm her with the presence of too many smells and sights. It is useless, for Beorn can smell them from across the meadow and, even if not that, her bees brought her knowledge before Gandalf has appeared on the doorstep.

But it’s a wise and courteous idea and for that she doesn’t tell him the truth. Instead she listens to the stories they tell her with growing respect and distress in one heartbeat. Orcs, so close. Trolls, descending from the mountains. Goblins.

She listens and her temper sours, her nails grow long and teeth clench tightly. So close on her doorstep, the danger, and she was unaware. How could that be! She would run and scout the area herself, just to make sure, to find any trace of her enemy and grind it into dust!

But then with the corner of her eye Beorn catches the Halfling flinching from her and she calms down quickly. She was away from people for so long that she forgets her manners and it stings, she is not an animal, no matter her other skin! The group is dirty and wounded and tired, and whatever’s left of the maternal instinct in her urges to fix that quickly!

Beorn invites the company into her Hall, orders her animals to prepare food and baths. She smiles, for the first time in weeks (or months?), when the Dwarves gape at her friends in wonder. She laughs outright when the tallest of them, the bald one with the axes, turns into a living statue when one of the sheep comes to him with a bowl of porridge neatly balanced on its head.

It surprises her more than them, that booming laugh. It feels… good. It feels right.

She gives them fire and food, blankets and sheets to wear while they tend to their clothes.

As wary and tight lipped as the Dwarrows are, their leader is grateful enough when he thanks Beorn for the hospitality. She takes it in stride, seeing the haunted look in his eyes for what it is, and doesn’t ask questions before they’re all settled at her table and their spirits rekindle.

She sits with them and soaks in the laughter and smiles that break out over the food and ale. They compare her table to the supposed ‘feast’ they’ve experienced in Rivendell few moons ago and she is foolishly pleased when her wares come on top. Especially when the big one, Bombur, praises the sweetmeats her goats prepared for dinner – one look at him proves that in terms of food he is certainly knowledgeable enough to pass valid judgement.   

She smokes her pipe and laughs with them, urging them to sing songs and tell stories in exchange for the food.

Gandalf smiles at her then; that old meddler probably figured it out that she was paid already – with their presence alone. With that laughter. With their smiles.

Sole presence of the little Hobbit would be enough, for her heart flutters a little when her eyes fall on his tiny form. She lifts him up and carries him around, to his mortified indignation, and she can’t help herself. He reminds her of a little bunny, that Bilbo Baggins. Of a little fierce bunny that trails after a group of hunting dogs on his short legs, with his wide eyes and little pointy ears.

Fools who think that bunnies are harmless and stupid! They’ve obviously never tried to catch a Rosgobell bunny!

She is acting silly, of course, and her cats roll their eyes at her from the rafters, and the Dwarves watch her wearily, as if afraid she will take off with their burglar at any given moment, but she just can’t help herself.

When the night comes, Beorn is so happy and preoccupied that she almost forgets about her duty. Almost.

“Stay in the Hall,” she tells the company. “Stay in the Hall and don’t come out.”

She will have them in one place, where her animals can look after them. She will have them safe in the night, when dangers prowl her land.

 

*

 

They stayed a few days with her and Beorn felt the change. Her heart turned lighter, as if her lungs could suddenly pull in more air than before. Her moods softened; her second skin didn’t itch as much under her first.

Her sheep, ever simple beings, looked up to her questioningly and her dogs shook their heads in amusement. The goats were as rude as ever and didn’t even think to explain anything to the sheep.

She didn’t want the Dwarves to go.

It’s a dangerous path they have to follow and her heart ached for them all, especially for her Little Bunny that’s braver than the bravest of much bigger people. Braver than her – to leave his home and follow a band of strangers to aid the cause that wasn’t his to begin with.

“They want to get their home back,” Bilbo told her one evening when they sat on the porch and smoked, amusing themselves with watching the three youngest Dwarves mock-fight on the front yard. “I can think of no nobler cause than that. They are my friends,” he looked at her saying that and Beorn could see the tenderness in his eyes. “I want to help them, if I can.” And then he looked at the youngsters and chuckled, “They are also not very bright, they need all the help they can get.”

She busted out laughing and tousled his curly hair, gathering the Hobbit to her chest. He squeaked a bit, but settled down.

And then there was the prince… no, the King. With his eyes full of longing and pain, but also fierce pride and love for those who have managed to climb the steep walls of his heart and get inside it. He wanted them all to live, but didn’t hold much hope for himself. Thorin Oakenshield lost so much already, and still had so much more to lose.

But he still risked it all for a chance of… of happiness? Of giving something to his people, a home they were robbed off. Their lost honour.

He still risked his everything on a mad quest led by a meddling Wizard.

Beorn didn’t want to let them go, but she didn’t have the heart to stop them.

She could equip them the best she could and give them advice and then she stood in the tall grass and watched them disappear in the forest. She went back to her Hall, to her home, and it was so…

Empty.

It was so empty. Her friends were all there, but there was no laughter, there were no smiles and no ruckus or curses. No one sharpened their axes on the porch and there was no one who would sing about the Misty Mountains…

Her skin itched and Beorn scratched at it with fierce hands, with clawed fingers. The human guise was hateful now; it kept her in this state of despair, this expectation of anyone who could make her feel even _a little bit less lonely_.   

It hurt!

For the first time in decades, since she was a little babe, it hurt to discard her human trappings.

That night Beorn run with her dogs like never before, deadly and swift like a curse. Wargs and Goblins that crossed her path didn’t have time to run, didn’t dare to fight, frozen in fear of the mad beast that swung claws hard as iron and sharp as knives.

She came back home with the daylight, bloodied and exhausted, collapsed on the mats in the Hall and sent away every hopeful sheep that attempted to tend to her wounds. It surprised her greatly when the cats came from the rafters, all of them, and settled around her like a hissing wall of sharp claws and unblinking eyes that scared away every creature that dared to come closer.

The mats under her nose still smelled of the dwarves, of metal and stone and furs.

Slowly, with a pained gasp Beorn changed her skin back, hiding away the fur and leaving just blood and scratches all over her body. The oldest of the cats, a grey female with an ugly scar across her nose and eye, limping and thin, leaned over her neck and purred softly while Beorn wept.

 

*

 

She didn’t wait for the Wizard to come to her, not this time.

Beorn knew that something wasn’t right from the moment Mirkwood turned dark and the Goblins disappeared from the passes. Something was cooking and her skin itched unlike any other time. It was expectation and fear mingled into one.

When she saw the smoke over the forest, the heart clenched in her chest. It could mean only one thing – the Dragon was roused and it wrecked destruction yet again. Laketown stood no chance against the beast.

Did the Dwarves? What chance a small group of fourteen had against an enemy so great and evil?

What became of her Little Bunny? Of the King with pained eyes?  Of his two smiling nephews whose laughter was stored safely in Beorn’s heart? Of the old, wise adviser who told her stories of the great kingdom before it fell?

How could she get any answers if she stayed where she was?

Her Hall was everything that was left of the once powerful race, everything she’s had left of her people.

And yet…

It was a jail. For all its brightness and homeliness it was a dungeon without the smiles of others to light up the darkness her life was turning to.

 _There_ were those who were brave enough to leave the safety of their homes, to aid a group of those who left their families and safe corners for a chance at glory. _There_ were those willing to die for a chance of immortality that would await them in the songs and stories that will be told around the Arda for ages to come!

And what was she, compared to them? What was her race, half-forgotten, dead and buried under the sands of time? What was a lonely sentry living an empty life of slaughter and trading food in exchange for stories of the real world and real deeds… 

What was she, compared to the smallest of them all? When even a simple Hobbit of the peaceful West was so much braver than her!

She didn’t wait for the Wizard to come. She knew the signs of an incoming tragedy and wasted no time in preparations. Only her strongest dogs would come with her; the biggest, swiftest ones with big paws and sharp teeth, scarred by many fights and willing to risk their lives alongside hers. The rest was to guard the Hall and helpless sheep and goats.

The cats wanted to go too – she should’ve expected that, really, there was nothing to stop them, but the distance from her meadow to the Lonely Mountain. Beorn needed to travel fast and they wouldn’t be able to keep up.

“Guard my home,” she’s told the old female, touching noses with her in a rare sign of affection. “If Valar are merciful, we will be back.”

She didn’t make it a promise, she was not sure she _wanted_ to come back, but the old cat understood her better than any of the others did, apparently. Slow death by inches was nothing to look up to.

She set out with her pack in the early morning on the second day after the smoke appeared. Mirkwood loomed darkly over her head, but nothing dared to get in her way. She pushed through the greenery and the darkness, relentlessly, stopping only when the dogs had to rest and drink – water in the forest was safe for animals as long as they kept their wits about them.

Beorn run like never before and her paws felt light against the ground, the heart was light in her chest, the wind hitting her muzzle seemed to blow the cobwebs form her mind. She was going into certain danger – not a night hunt for her foes, but a battle with something bigger than she’s ever faced before. She should feel fear, yet all she could feel was… freedom. Peace.

She was going into the fight, maybe into the war, and she would give her best, she would make her ancestors proud of the last of their line. Just as the King with sorrowful eyes tried to make his forefathers proud. Just as his sister-sons tried to make _him_ proud.

She was the last of her line, but she would make it count! If Valar were kind, Beorn would fight side by side with those so much braver than her and die a death that would be remembered!

If Valar were kind, then maybe… then maybe they would _live_ … maybe they would all live and there would be laughter in her Hall again.

 

*

 

The battle was like nothing she’s ever seen. It was bloody and messy in the worse sense. It was so loud.

Her dogs were brave, though, and they tore into the Wargs with ferocity she could only admire. There were Men on the battlefield, and Elves and more Dwarves she could count.

There were no Hobbits and Beorn spared a thought to feel grateful for that small mercy.  Her Little Bunny didn’t have a place there, in all that bloodshed.

The noise was unbelievable and it made something in her blood call back, something in her chest burst alive at the smell of blood and fur around her and for the first time since she could remember Beorn discarded her human mind almost entirely, allowing her instinct to take its place. She felt bigger and stronger than ever, her claws felt indestructible and the blood on her tongue was sweet instead of sour.  Men got out of her way in fear, Elves followed their example, wary, yet grateful.

Goblins knew her, oh, they knew her very well, and they trembled at the sight of the last skin-changer left on Arda. Even with an army around them the terror was palatable in the air, they knew stories of her, and they feared. And she breathed that fear in and nestled it in her chest, willing to become even worse of a nightmare for the scum that dared to threaten the ones who relighted her heart! Who dared to cross under her lands and out of her sight, to make a fool out of her and her people’s legacy!

Here and there a familiar face blinked by; an elaborately braided silver beard, a funny hat that made her smile when she first saw it, two short axes swishing through the air like tricks of light. She counted them, like the Wizard liked to do every morning, and her heart filled with joy every time she could add one to the list.

If she could die there, on that battlefield, she would die without regrets. In one skin or another, she would give her life to something bigger than her blood’s duty. For a woman who would never leave anything else of herself in this world, for she wasn’t even blessed with remembrance in the form of a strong daughter, that was enough of a mark.

Beorn never thought of that until this moment, of the instincts that left her decades ago. Maybe it was the Halfling’s presence that stirred them? Maybe her Little Bunny made her eyes tender and her heart softer? Maybe it was every hungry belly and every scratch and wound that demanded care under her roof. Who knows?

The important part was that her ears were sharp for one voice; that when they heard it call out in distress some instinct in Beorn ordered her to turn her head and guided her eyes to the form of the King with pained eyes. Her heart seized at the sight of the enemies surrounding him – and yet he still stood tall, if all alone, with a sword in one hand and an axe in the other. His friends, his sister-sons were close, but not close enough.

Their eyes locked for one precious second and what Beorn saw in the blue gaze of the Dwarf shook her to the core. Grief.

And peace.

In a sense, Thorin Oakenshield was the last King Under the Mountain, the last one truly worthy of this title. And here, in front of her eyes, he was ready to lay his life, to join his forefathers in _peace_.

But she would not have that! She would not let him go alone!

For she was also the last one and if they were about to perish, it would have to be together, fighting back to back! May her ancestors be as proud of her as his were of him!

He fell under the first blow, staggered to his knees and dropped his axe, leaning heavily on the bloody sword. He screamed when a spear pierced his shoulder and his arm gave up, and he fell on the ground. Third blow never came.

 

*

 

They told stories about it across Arda for many decades to come.

Of the Battle of Five Armies that marked the day when the Lonely Mountain, kingdom of Erebor, was reclaimed by the Durin’s line. Under Men’s roofs and in the tree homes of the Elves in Lorien, in majestic Rivendell and even in the small village of Hobbiton in the Shire. From Ered Luin to Gondor, from Rohan to Iron Hills and back, the story was told in many incarnations and languages. It was told by fathers to their children before they went to beds, by the bards to their rulers, by the travelling   story-tellers in the taverns. And every time the essence of the story remained unchanged.

There was a great King that fell in the battle with Orcs, surrounded by enemies, hopelessly outnumbered. He fought bravely, but soon lost his axe and his sword, and his knees gave out under him when a spear hit his shoulder. The Orcs rejoiced, thinking they’ve won, readying themselves for a killing blow…

And the children would listen with their eyes wide open and glassy with tears, and the lords would lean closer in suspense, and the patrons in taverns would grip their mugs tighter. And fathers, bards and story tellers would keep their faces tight and serious, breath in deeply and, splaying their fingers like claws high above their heads, they would lounge at the audience with wild roars on their lips!

And the children would squeal and hide under their covers, the rulers would gasp and the crowds in taverns would cheer and raise their mugs when the best part of the story came about.

The part when a bear as massive as a workhorse jumped into the fray to stand over the fallen King, like a shield made of muscle and bone. The beast was dark with blood of the enemies, the bards would say; its teeth were as long as my hand, fathers would swear; it tore through Orcs and Wargs like a knife tears through a loaf of fresh bread, story-tellers would emphasise their words with sharp gestures.

The last skin-changer of Arda guarded the King ferociously, never allowing any harm to come to him. She was so fierce that the Orcs soon backed away and even though she wanted to chase after them, to pay them back for every wound on her body, she didn’t dare to move from the spot. Big paws firmly on the ground, bloodied nose in the air and teeth bared in warning she stood over the King until his own people came and took him to the healers.

“ _She? And how do you know it was a she?”_ Children would ask. Rulers would ask. Patrons would ask.

And fathers and bards and story-tellers would smile their most secretive smiles.

Especially one story-teller who looked at his audience from under the rim of an old, grey hat and puffed at his pipe stoically until the suspense in the room became so thick it could be poured into a pot and boiled. He would smile then, gently, his creased face taking on a mischievous look and he would answer quite sensibly.

“Dear friends, what else could it be? Do you know of a fiercer creature than a she-bear protecting her own?”

And, when they thought about it, it made a startling amount of sense.

 

      

    

        

 

 


End file.
